Fifty First Times

by Molly McAdams

  Before I could respond, she continued. “My periods have always been weird, sometimes not coming for months at a time. But now, I haven’t had it in almost a year, so I asked my doctor about it. We’ve been doing what she called, minor tests, and my doctor kept assuring me everything was fine, and not to worry about it. She figured it had something to do with growing up as a dancer, that’s why I never told you. I got a call yesterday, they wanted me to come in today. She explained everything in medical terms, but I had no idea what she was telling me, then she said it basically meant that I’d stopped producing eggs. And even with fertility treatments, I most likely couldn’t have—couldn’t have—” More sobs wracked her body, and I pulled her onto my lap.

  “It’s okay, baby. We’ll try the treatments, we’ll try whatever you want. No matter the cost, we’ll figure it out.”

  “Don’t you understand?” she asked, pushing away from me. “The one thing you wanted, I can’t give you!”

  Gripping her face, I waited until she was looking at me before I spoke soft and low. “You are so wrong. I want you, Kinlee, all I’ve ever wanted was you.”

  Tears continued falling down her cheeks, and my heart broke for her, for us. It was something we’d always talked about, dreamed of. But that didn’t make me love her any less. If she wanted to try the treatments, we would. If she wanted to adopt, we would. If we decided to just be the two of us, then that’s exactly what we would be.

  My throat tightened at the thought of Kinlee never carrying our baby, but I knew I needed to be strong for her right now, so I blinked back the tears, and bit back my own cry that was trying to force its way up my throat.

  “I thought when I told you that you would decide you didn’t want to be with me anymore. That you would want someone who could give you a family. I’m sorry for everything I said to you tonight, I’d just been so upset all night, and not knowing what would happen once you found out had my mind running wild. I’m so sorry, Jace.”

  Kissing her lips softly, I hushed her and pressed my forehead to hers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the things I said to you, and I’m sorry for walking out that door. But, Kinlee, I love you. I’m going to love you until the day I die, and nothing will ever change that. You understand me?”

  She nodded slowly, and took a staggering breath in.

  “You and I have gone through too much together to let this break us now. And I’m sure there will be more in our future that seems like it’s too hard to get through. But we’ve always gotten through them together, and we’ll continue to do it that way. And, babe, don’t ever think for one second that I would want someone who isn’t you.” Grabbing her chin, I tilted her head back to look at her beautiful face. “You shared all my firsts with me, Kinlee Ann, and I’m gonna make sure every last experience will be shared with you too.”

  Her lips curved up slightly, and a soft laugh bubbled past her lips. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you too, Kinlee. I’ll always love you.”

  About the Author

  MOLLY McADAMS grew up in California but now lives in the oh-so-amazing state of Texas with her husband and furry four-legged daughters. Her hobbies include hiking, snowboarding, traveling, and long walks on the beach . . . which roughly translates to being a homebody with her hubby and dishing out movie quotes. When she’s not diving into the world of her characters, she can be found hiding out in her bedroom surrounded by her laptop, cell, and Kindle, and fighting over the TV remote. She has a weakness for crude-humored movies and fried pickles and loves curling up in a fluffy comforter during a thunderstorm . . . or under one in a bathtub if there are tornados. That way she can pretend they aren’t really happening.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Strike Out

  MYRA MCENTIRE

  Ben

  “SO BENNY . . . EXACTLY what shade of blue are your gonads?”

  I ignore Spinelli and pull the threadbare towel tighter around my waist. I’m not ashamed of the package, I’m just beginning to wonder if it’s shriveling up from disuse.

  “Have you left the common color family? Sky, ocean, cornflower . . . tell me, have you wondered over to periwinkle territory?”

  I open my locker and take out my shave kit. “Thank you for your interest in my balls.”

  “Too bad no one else has any.” He starts dancing around the lockers, doing obscene things to the open ones. “If you’d come out with us every once in a while, maybe you could drum some up.”

  “I’ll leave the clubbing to you.”

  “Club and conquer. All the ladies. Maybe even the one you have your eye on.” This, followed by more locker humping.

  Spinelli holds court like a king, and his subjects pay him honor with their laughter. Even the Dominican guys who don’t speak English understand his innuendo.

  The pelvic thrusts help.

  “Speaking of dicks, what about yours?” I ask. “Did you call the exterminator yet? About your little infestation problem?”

  Spinelli frowns.

  I leave my meaning to soak in as I head for the sink to shave. Major leaguers can have more whiskers than the entire Duck Dynasty cast, but minor leaguers have to be baby-faced. I assume someone in public relations hopes it will perpetuate the wholesome image of the boys of summer. No fool with a lick of sense is buying that shit. Dedication might rule the day when we’re at the field, but debauchery takes over when we leave it.

  For most of us.

  “They’d stop giving you hell if you’d just get laid.”

  I drop my shave kit on the sink and turn on the water to let it heat up before facing my best friend. “Not true. They’d just find a way to make hell smell different.”

  Taye Adams and I met when we were both drafted out of high school four years ago. I signed for a good deal many more bills than he did, but we’ve both made a “meteoric rise” to Triple A. The sportswriters love us equally. And until I’d set eyes on one Liza Perez, so had the ladies.

  “Two hot ones are waiting for me outside the clubhouse.” Taye splashes his cheeks with cold water, but I can barely tell he’s shaved. “One of them is tall with dark hair. You could always sublimate.”

  “You can handle them both. Surplus testosterone and your wicked vocabulary always serve you well.”

  “Big words are like crack to college girls, and I need a smart woman who can support me if this elbow blows out. I’m thinking about my future.” Taye runs his hand over his chest, which he has waxed every week. Good thing. He’s the hairiest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. He lowers his voice. “You still aren’t having any luck making Liza part of yours?”

  I focus on the steam rising from the sink. “Zilch.”

  Wisely, Taye goes back to his hygienic routine, which involves a lot of floss and Listerine. With his relentless sexual pursuits, disinfectant is probably a good choice for him. I stick my face in the vapor coming from the sink and breathe.

  I’ve timed how long I have to wait to run into Liza in the parking lot.

  By then, everyone else is gone, my stomach is growling, and the clubbie, Jumbo, has already washed the all uniforms. He’s transferring them to the dryer when I slide an envelope with a fifty onto his cart. I have the means to tip, so I do. Clubbies know things, and they have access to jockstraps and plenty of Ben-Gay. Plus he’s local. I need all the help I can get in this town, so I try to keep him on my good side.

  I’ve never been able to get anywhere close to Liza’s.

  She is a legend.

  Spring training locker room talk schooled me about the girl who’d started as summer help, moved on to intern, and as of last September, became a full-time employee. The girl with legs all the way to her teeth and blue-black hair that refuses to stay in a ponytail. The girl who can handle a fan who’s indulged in one too many dollar beers. Who can sell out every season ticket seat with her smile. The girl who drives a 1965 lipstick red Mustang and won’t give baseball
players the time of day.

  They’ve tried, from bonus babies with egos fed by agents and endorsement deals to guys who signed for ten bucks and a case of beer. Not even one has come close.

  I hadn’t come to town with the intention of being “that guy”—the kind who sees a challenge and pursues it to a satisfying conclusion. I’d never had trouble with women, and I managed to stay out of prolonged entanglements by simply being nice. I’d planned on achieving an end-of-season call-up to the big leagues and little else, with an occasional hookup to pass the time. I hadn’t even scored one before I met her in the general manager’s office.

  “Turns out one of my roommates is a little hard up for cash.”

  The team had an agreement with an apartment complex. They’d rent us decent places at reasonable prices, but to avoid late payments and general mayhem, rent and utilities were taken out of our paychecks. It kept damage to a minimum, and parties out of the apartments.

  “It happens.” The Jackson Jags had been around for almost thirty years, and Ernie Oliver had worked at the stadium for all of them. “Especially in this business. Guys get away from home and blow their bonuses on women and booze. That, or they never had any money to begin with.”

  “You probably have more stories than you could tell in a day,” I observed.

  “I try to keep them to myself, and not to judge. Everybody’s trying to get by, and we can’t all be bonus babies.” He blanched. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Don’t apologize.” I’d stopped taking comments like that personally four years ago, when I’d banked my own nest egg. “I don’t want you to get me out of the lease. I just want you to charge me more than you charge Gonzales. Or Taye Adams, for that matter. I’ll say we got a deal on the place, and I’ll cover three hundred on each of their rent withdrawals. But you can’t tell them.”

  “Done.”

  We’d just worked out the details when the door to the office opened.

  She had on a cherry red sweater, jeans, and boots that came up over her knees. Her hair was loose and slightly static-y, most likely due to the Doctor Who Laplander in her hand.

  “Oops! I didn’t think anyone was in here.” She leaned over to place a stack of contracts on Ernie’s desk, leaving me with a whiff of something like cotton candy, and started to back up.

  “Hold up, don’t leave yet. Meet Jackson Bullock.”

  “I go by my middle name.” I turned to Ernie. “It’s Ben. Please don’t use Jackson on the roster.”

  “Hi, Ben.” As soon as the words were out, her lips formed a firm, straight line. I wondered what I’d done to offend her, and then understood she was trying not to laugh.

  “Art lover?” I’d asked.

  “Art history minor.” She kept the laugh in, but the sparkle in her eyes was unmistakable.

  “I don’t spend my spare time throwing paint at canvases.” Jackson Bullock was way too close to Jackson Pollock, famous American drip painter.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No. My parents should be sorry. No one else.” Maybe my name wouldn’t be such a pain if my parents had known what they were doing, like if it had been a tribute or something. But it had been a total accident.

  “I have a cousin named Crystal Chandelier, if that helps.” Sympathy mixed with humor in her expression, and it was so genuine and kind that my breath caught.

  “It does.”

  “Are you the new intern?” she asked.

  “No, Ben is our newest catcher,” Ernie answered for me. “One of the top five prospects in the organization. I expect we’ll lose you to the major league club before the end of the season.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Ben, this is Liza Perez. She joined us in September full-time.”

  “I’ve heard of her,” I said, before I could rip out my tongue and stomp it to a pulp beneath my feet. “I’ve heard of you. That you were a great asset to the team. To the club. To the staff.”

  The kindness on her face had melted away, to be replaced by a mask of indifference. “Ernie, those contracts need to be back to the front office by tomorrow. Let me know when you’re finished and I’ll have a messenger sent over.”

  Then she left without so much as a good-bye. I’ve been fighting an uphill battle ever since.

  I push away the memory as the heavy metal door to the clubhouse swings shut behind me, leaving only the emergency lights from the parking lot to help me see my way to my car. She’s my one indulgence, and currently my only love affair, a bright red Audi R8.

  She screams excess, not: I have seven figures in my hometown bank and trust, and I live off the interest. Renting furniture and sharing an apartment isn’t a hardship. If the major leagues don’t work out, finding a way to make a decent living without a college education could be.

  But I couldn’t resist the ride.

  I slide into the leather bucket seat and start to shut the door. That’s when I realize Liza’s parked three spaces over, and she’s sitting in her car.

  Liza

  MY CAR BATTERY is as dead as a doornail.

  What does that mean, anyway? What’s so dead about a doornail? I’ll Google it when I get home. I could Google it now, except my phone’s dead as . . . dead. I don’t like using phrases unless I’m certain what they mean.

  I can’t get back into the office. My stupid roommate left my car key on the kitchen counter with a note, but borrowed the rest of the ring. I could knock on the clubhouse door, but Jumbo is probably hip deep in uniforms and jockstraps and won’t be able to hear me over the whir of all the machines. There are a couple of cars in the parking lot. Maybe someone will come out and . . . oh no. No no no. Three spaces down sits an Audi R8. A blatant display of douche, if you ask me, even if it does have a V10 engine and a seven-speed dual clutch transmission. The problem is that it’s owned by a certain ballplayer.

  Jackson Bullock, dumbest name ever, is the quintessential example of everything I hate. Ripped body, blinding smile, thick, blond hair, eyes the exact same color as a green forest crayon. Sarcasm veiled in thin wit. Cockiness that comes off as confidence. Not one redeeming quality.

  Except that isn’t exactly true, and I know it. I just don’t like to admit that I know it.

  “He was covering part of his each of his roommate’s rent,” Ernie had said. “You’ll see it in payroll, and since you notice everything, I wanted to give you a heads-up that it’s not a mistake.”

  “Why would he do that?” I asked. “Did he lose a bet?”

  “He and Taye have been friends for a long time. Ben got a better signing bonus. And Gonzales sends a chunk of money home, a lot of little brothers and sisters. Ben wants to help without making it look like a handout. He doesn’t want it acknowledged either.”

  “Oh.”

  “You know, Liza, you can’t put all ballplayers in the same bucket. You’d be pissed if they did that to you.”

  “But they already do, Ernie. Because I have a vagina.”

  Ernie blushed eggplant. Ernie has known me since I was born, and is more of a dad to me than the loser who’d cut and run when my mom told him she was expecting.

  “Maybe one day they’ll see past it, but in the prime of their sexual lives, that’s as far as they get.” I held up one finger. “Redaction. Their gaze might wander up to my breasts.”

  Ernie’s eyes went blind as he groped around on his desk for his coffee cup. I should’ve warned him that it had gone cold three hours ago, but I gave him his moment.

  “I can’t believe you’d encourage me to date a player,” I said, as he’d gone fish-mouthed and swallowed the coffee anyway. “After thirty years in the business? After everything you know about me?”

  “I’m not telling you to date anyone. I’m trying to teach you that not all people are the same.”

  “Is he throwing money at you, too?”

  We’d argued about it a couple more times, then a couple dozen more times, until I accused Ernie of having an u
lterior motive and threatened to tell my mom what he was up to. He’d dropped it after that, and I’d stuck with my original assessment. Tried to bury my knowledge of Ben’s kindnesses, even the ones I’d witnessed firsthand.

  To ignore the way he kneels to their eye level when kids talk to him. How he’s ordered pizza for the entire clubhouse and the staff more than once. He’s refused payment for the day camps we’ve done, asking instead that the money be donated to the Boys and Girls Clubs. He engages with fans when they ask him to sign baseballs, smiles for photos, and is unfailingly polite with everyone. My gut instinct is that he might really be different.

  Plus, I’ve never once seen him leave the park with a girl.

  I hear the crunch of gravel and look up.

  Tonight might change that.

  “Eliza?”

  I resist the urge to slam my head against the steering wheel. “Ben.”

  “Everything okay? Do you need a ride?”

  There’s no sexual inflection in the question, even though it’s an obvious opportunity most guys would take. “It’s just a dead battery. I’m fine.”

  “So someone’s coming to get you?”

  I bite down on my lip. I hate lying. “I’ll find a ride.”

  He looks around the near empty parking lot. “Jumbo’s going to be here for a while. Sometimes he stays over, and we leave early for a three-day road trip tomorrow. Do you have anyone to call?”

  I sigh and hold up my dead cell.

  Ben takes off his baseball cap and runs his hand through his hair. It sticks up in fifteen different directions, making him look younger than twenty-one. “Let me take you home.”

  “I said I’ll be fine.”

  “Please? My mama would kill me if she knew I’d left a lady in a parking lot.”

  “Your mama?” I laugh, and then laugh again. “Your mama. Am I supposed to make a joke now? Like, your mama’s so fat she sued Xbox 360 for guessing her weight?”

  “Actually my mother is a very trim retired kindergarten teacher who volunteers part-time at a homeless shelter.”